“How do you finally stop worrying? You realize that the version of yourself that will be able to handle every situation that might arise in your life will be born in the precise moment that situation comes to be. No matter where your path might take you, or where you go, the version of yourself that you will need in those moments will emerge right as you need it and not a second before. You cannot call upon all of the parts of yourself to exist at once. Different versions of you are needed for various aspects of your life. Find peace in knowing that you are more than one thing, and within the layers of who you are-both visible and invisible-exists a strength that is equal to or more powerful than anything you may come to face.”
– Brianna Wiest, The Pivot Year
Today marks four years of continuous sobriety—a milestone that feels both miraculous and grounding. At 34, I was so consumed by alcohol that I developed alcoholic liver disease, yet here I am, sober with a healthy liver. It’s a victory I honor deeply, but I also hold space for the truth: today is just another day in the lifelong journey of recovery. Sobriety isn’t a magical fix; it doesn’t shield us from life’s hardships. But it does offer clarity, resilience, and the capacity to face life as it is.
This clarity has been my anchor this past week as I navigate a heart-wrenching reality. My 85-year-old mother in Costa Rica fell and broke her hip, requiring surgery. Since then, complications have set in, and yesterday she was found unresponsive. At nearly nine months pregnant, I can’t travel to be by her side. I can’t hold her hand, speak to her, or comfort her. Instead, I sit here, folding tiny baby clothes and waiting for WhatsApp updates from my older sisters.
With my momma.
The uncertainty is crushing. Thoughts crash over me like relentless waves: Was our last conversation truly the last? Did I hug her for the final time when I said goodbye? Will she ever meet my daughter, Amara? The pain radiates through my spirit, raw and unyielding. But amidst the ache, I realize something profound—there is no pull to escape this grief through alcohol. It wouldn’t lessen the hurt, nor would it honor the love I carry for her.
Reflecting on my father’s death in 2018, I see how sobriety has transformed my ability to endure loss or the possibility of it. Back then, I traveled to Costa Rica in a drunken haze, narrowly sobering up for his funeral. I was riddled with shame—sneaking aguardiente to numb myself, only for my mother to find it the next morning. She looked at me with disappointment and hissed, “Why are you drinking so much? You’re going to end up like your cousin (who died from drinking).” Her words stung, but my addiction muted their weight.
Now, as I face my mother’s declining health, Brianna Wiest’s words resonate deeply: “The version of yourself that you will need in those moments will emerge right as you need it and not a second before.” Sobriety has given me the tools to face whatever comes next—not with fear or avoidance, but with grace. Whether my mother miraculously recovers (and I’m rooting for that) or these are her final days, I know I can stand in this truth without alcohol, even as it feels like an emotional roller coaster.
Just yesterday, my sisters walked into my mother’s hospital room to find a priest giving her last rites. Yet this morning, she was awake and alert, complaining about a headache and asking for coffee. This roller coaster of emotions, of hope and uncertainty, is exhausting, but I know I am ready to face whatever comes next.
As I move into my fifth year of sobriety, I carry with me self-trust and confidence. Life will continue to test me, but I now meet it with an open heart and steady resolve—because sobriety has shown me that I can.
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Recently, I overheard someone who clearly knew little about addiction say, “If you have a problem with alcohol, just stop drinking.”
If only it were that simple. People wouldn’t be revolving through treatment facilities, finding support in sobriety groups for years, and wrestling with the relentless pull of addiction if stopping was just a matter of will. This week, I had the chance to share a piece in a writing class led by author Marion Roach Smith, where I spoke candidly about how consuming and difficult it is to live with alcohol addiction.
Check it out below.
After five weeks in rehab, there I was, facing my dismissal day tomorrow. Deep down, there was that familiar, sinking feeling. I felt it every time I tried to convince myself I was heading back to “normal.” I tried to replay everyone’s kind words, but I couldn’t find any comfort in them. Reaching into my bra, I pulled out the sleep meds I’d stashed there, swallowed them quickly, and hoped sleep would take me away from the gnawing sense of impending doom.
The next morning, my friend who’d been looking after Cruz since I’d gone into treatment was there, waiting to take me home. I stepped into the sunlight, and we hugged tightly. It felt so good to be held by someone from the outside world again. We went straight to the grocery store, where the smell of cilantro in the produce aisle made my mouth water. I filled my basket with bright fruits and healthy snacks, determined to keep up the balanced eating habits I’d learned in treatment.
But the drive back to my house was a blur. Though I was sober, my mind felt foggy. My friend came in with me, did a quick sweep of the house to make sure there were no hidden bottles, then hugged me and asked, “Alright, girl, you gonna be good?” I hesitated, my mind spinning, but I forced a nod. “Yeah, it’ll be tough, but I’ll be good.” As I shut the door behind her, I turned and looked around my house, my supposed sanctuary. All I could see was emptiness, the painful echo of broken dreams.
So, it’s just you and me, I thought, staring at the silent rooms. Just me and this house full of ghosts. I went to turn on the TV, but it was dead—I’d fallen into it drunk one night, breaking the cables. I opened my laptop, but immediately shut it again at the sight of a picture of my late boyfriend, smiling and carefree. I moved around the house, from chair to couch, but everywhere I sat felt hollow.
Then, like the first drop of a storm, the thought of drinking slipped into my mind. It quickly spread, filling me with a fiendish desire I couldn’t shake. I knew I shouldn’t, knew it was dangerous. But the rationalizations came fast. I can order a bottle and just hold it, I don’t have to drink it, I told myself as I scrolled through the alcohol delivery app, adding a bottle to my cart. I can pour it down the drain after a few sips, I reasoned as I completed my purchase.
I reactivated my old routine of pretending everything was fine. I called my sister, my voice upbeat. “Hey! Just letting you know I’m finally home … Yeah, it’s definitely weird … I promise I’ll call if anything … Yeah, I’m going to bed early, I’m just so sleepy…” I texted a few friends, letting them know I was “good” and going to “bed.” It was only 7:30 PM. I was not going to bed.
The bottle was in my hands, then at my lips. The burn of alcohol slid down my throat, making me gag; I’d forgotten the sting. I drank straight from the bottle as if I’d stumbled upon water in a desert.
I had left the protective cocoon of treatment—a so-called fortress meant to shield me. I was supposed to emerge as a butterfly, ready to soar, but my wings were still crumpled. I crashed hard. Lying flat on the floor, “Nights in White Satin” by the Moody Blues played on repeat, each verse carving deeper into my soul:
Never reaching the end Letters I’ve written Never meaning to send…
I took one last breath, closed my eyes, and let myself slip back under, drowning once more in the dark waters of my addiction.
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Before I quit drinking, fear had me in its grip. It wasn’t just a passing worry—it was the invisible thread pulling every string in my life. I lived with the constant dread that my secret relationship with alcohol would be exposed, so I masked it by excelling in every other area. I was always the first to arrive at work and often the last to leave. No deadline was missed, no project detail overlooked. No matter how sick I felt from last night’s drinking, I powered through the hangovers, desperate to keep up the illusion that everything was fine. That fear—of being found out—was stronger than any withdrawal symptom.
I’ll never forget the day one of my students, Zavion, blurted out, “Ms. Dueñas, you smell like alcohol!” He said it with the carefree honesty only a middle schooler can muster, smiling as if he didn’t realize the weight of his words. I quickly turned away, my stomach knotting with anxiety, hoping he’d be distracted soon by the chaos of the classroom. While Zavion probably forgot the comment in minutes, I carried it with me, a stark reminder that I was always walking on the edge of exposure.It wasn’t until later that I realized the most dangerous part of my life wasn’t the fear of being caught—it was the fact that I was slowly killing myself in silence. I had a choice: either keep living in fear or face the truth and reclaim my life. For me, that meant going to the extreme and writing an Op-ed that went viral, spilling my truth to the world. But not everyone has to go that route.
If you’re keeping this deadly secret to yourself, know this: you don’t need to broadcast your struggles to the world, but opening up to someone can make all the difference. That one conversation could be the difference between isolation and support, between feeling lost and finding hope.You just need to tell someone—one person who can support you. That simple act can transform your journey from isolating in fear to finding real help.
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“i want to apologize to all the women i have called beautiful
before i’ve called them intelligent or brave
i am sorry i made it sound as though
something as simple as what you’re born with
is all you have to be proud of
when you have broken mountains with your wit
from now on i will say things like
you are resilient, or you are extraordinary
not because i don’t think you’re beautiful
but because i need you to know
you are more than that”
― Rupi Kaur
Confidence is not something I was born with, nor was it something I was taught to have. Growing up, the message I received—both at home and from society—was clear: as a little girl with a complicated relationship with food, I was only acceptable if I was thin. From a young age, I found myself in a relentless battle with my body, constantly trying to mold it into something it wasn’t.
As a young woman, I took drastic measures, undergoing weight loss surgery in the hopes that it would finally give me the self-esteem I desperately craved. I believed that if I could fit into the narrow box defined by societal standards, confidence would naturally follow, and life would become easier.
But reality had other plans. Food had always been my comfort, and after the surgery, when food was no longer an option, alcohol quickly took its place as my go-to escape from life’s stressors. My body changed, but my mindset did not. I hadn’t done the internal work needed to believe I was worthy, and despite the weight loss, I remained trapped in a cycle of self-doubt, still feeling not good enough.
This mindset led me to settle into unhealthy romantic relationships. I would tell myself things like, “What if Keith is the best I could do?” even after catching him with another woman. Or, “Maybe Matthew will do better this time,” ignoring the fact that Matthew knew better all along but chose not to change.
The shame surrounding my growing addiction to alcohol kept me silent, further cementing the false belief that I was not enough. Even though I earned accolades like being named the 2019 Kentucky State Teacher of the Year and the 2019 Woman of the Year in the Louisville community, these honors meant nothing when I looked in the mirror.
It wasn’t until I found the courage to let myself be fully seen—owning the fact that I was a woman battling alcohol addiction—that my confidence and self-esteem began to blossom. Speaking openly about my addiction not only led me to the resources I needed to get and stay sober, but it also gave me the strength to walk away from anything that didn’t serve me—jobs, relationships, and any space where I didn’t belong.
I finally understood that I didn’t need to force myself to fit into any mold—whether it was a societal expectation or a toxic relationship. With the clarity that comes from an unclouded mind, the old narratives lost their power.
Embracing my recovery from addiction became the foundation for building my confidence and self-esteem.
Reflect: What do you need to foster your confidence and let it grow?
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This guest submission comes from one of my Writing to Heal students, where participants find the courage to heal by facing their stories, often for the first time. I am deeply grateful to Jorgie for his vulnerability and so proud of the growth in his writing from Week 1 to Week 6 of our program.
Content Warning: Physical Violence and Language.
A truth I learned about myself while working with my therapist, is that I was addicted to “codependency”, and nobody could tell me shit otherwise. I was heavily relying on my relationship with my ex-partner and people throughout my life, so my therapist explained to me, “People (Bodies), Places (Alcohol), and Things (Pills) were “wants” of mine, not “needs.” My assumption was that as long as I was in school and working that, I was doing ok, and that my societal expectations were being met. My needing assistance is ok if I need help and support from my family and friends, not be an “Emotional Vampire” and drain the life forces from the people that I love and care about. Afterward, I started to take responsibility for the actions that I had always avoided. Through sobriety, I was more “Present,” and my awareness heightened, and I was able to think more clearly and not depend on Alcohol and Pills for escapism and avoidance.
Codependency started blooming from childhood because even though I had a roof over my head, sometimes, with the chaos at home, the roof would constantly shatter over my head, shake the walls, and I always hid from loudness. My parents fought constantly; my dad would hit my mom, pinch her, and pull her hair, and in retaliation, my mom would explode with rage and break dishes in the house. The screaming and the sounds of flesh hitting flesh caused huge knots in my stomach, that is, until this day, whenever I hear loudness, my sensors go up. I hid, avoided, and exploded. My parents loved me, unfortunately they did not have the resources and coping skills for communication, embrace and peace due to Intergenerational trauma passed down from my grandparents and my great grandparents.
Every time there was chaos in the house, I always ran into my bedroom, jumped on the bed, forced my face down on the pillow, and sobbed. Consciously I went in there to hide because it was the only door in the house with a lock on it and a big bed to keep me afloat and protect me like a fortress from violence. The knots in my gut that were corralling around like vines with thorns on it, made my stomach so heavy, it was like swallowing a bowling ball, the heaviness would not go away, until the fights subsided. It was like my throat was dry as the desert, could not swallow, forcefully exhaling my breaths out of my cracked quaky lips which only stayed lubricated from my tears rolling down my cheeks. I was a “Professional Hider” with my heavy breathing and uncontrollable sobbing, while the background noise continued with my parents screaming, yelling, fighting, dishes breaking, and empty threats.
As I got older, I became an “Emotional Vampire”. The chaos that ensued at home did not fill me with love, only dread. Everyone within my proximity, I would suck their energy like a mosquito, and not getting enough blood. If they did not answer the phone, I would give them hell. If they did not answer my text messages I would ignore them for days, even weeks. Being alone and in my thoughts, I absolutely could not do it, so I always bombarded my friends with phone calls to hang out, get high, drunk, and numb out. If my friends did not meet my expectations to hang out or even talk, they would meet the “Brown Eyed Bitch”. Even though they loved me, they just found me relentless and exhausting and would ignore me. I will show them!
The Brown Eyed Bitch (BEB) was the life of the party; everyone always needed Jorgie at the party to hype it up, twerk upside down, vomit and be a hot damn mess. Like two sides of a coin, there was the “Jorgie” side, and the “BEB” side. If I called a friend and they did not answer, beware if I leave a voicemail, “Oh so you did not answer your phone? Ok! I see how it is, Celebrity! Let me ask you, are you on an EGOT? Do you have an Emmy, Grammy, Oscar or Tony? I don’t think so so why didn’t you pick up the fucking phone?!” If the BEB texted, and there was no response, then it becomes…
“Hello?”
“Are you there?”
“So now you’re ignoring me?
“Ok watch!”
“Wait until I see you”
“Bitch”
“Love you!”
If my friends could not fill my love tank, then “bodies” would. So I started to randomly hook up with strangers online, and on blind first dates, that just led to Blackout Sex. The embrace, hugs, and kisses that I did not get from home, I would look for complete strangers who would fill me up, never see them again, and move on to the next one. It was not until I went on a blind date that finally, a spark was formed when I met my future partner, when we went to the movies to see Inception. We really enjoyed each other’s company, so we went on many more dates, and ended up together for the next 12 years. Unfortunately, towards the end of the relationship, we were both drinking and using, and what I saw in my parents as a child was now something I did with my partner. The yelling, slapping, kicking, disagreements, it was like a cycle of violence all over again into my adulthood.
In the beginning, we were goo goo gaga for each other, love at first sight, the perfect couple. Finally, I felt at peace in my life, and I had a life I could share with someone,spend the rest of my life with, and create a future together. Unfortunately, we found a hobby together, which was drinking. We drank everyday, then one day my partner gave me a pain pill, and my life drastically changed from there. I was hooked, it was like no other feeling I ever felt, and I needed more. Those feelings intensified, so when my partner was not looking I would go into their bag and steal their pills. Finally completing my trifecta of: body, alcohol and pills, I was set, and my life was like that for the whole relationship with my partner at the time. Avoided my family, no Communication with my friends, and Exploded with fury at my partner.
To understand the demise of our relationship is for me to explain how it comes crumbling down piece by piece, until it was glass shattered all over us, that we were cut with each blade, and we had scars all over of our body, and yet we were both in denial that “everything is OK”. In the Beginning of our relationship, I felt like I was floating on air, I was happy all the time like a kid at the Amusement park, the joy, endless conversations that made me feel like finally I was not alone. Unfortunately, alcohol came into the picture, and we were always arguing, sometimes I could not even stand their ass, and wanted them out of my sight. Like a gnat that was in my face, and I wanted to smack the shit out of it and get it the hell away from me! Our conversations would be filled with such love and care. The beginning of our wonderful partnership was like….
“Hi babe, how was your day?”
“I miss you”
“I love you”
“Let’s go have dinner, where would you like to go?”
Drastically, over time, the relationship was crumbling; we were drinking daily, and the BEB was more present than Jorgie.
“Hey did you fold the laundry?”
“Did you take the dogs out?”
“Did you clean up the dog shit?”
“Yeah let’s go eat and get it over with”.
On June 5, 2022, my ex of 12 years kicked me out of our shared Townhouse. Months later, I would send them a text saying, “Thank you for doing that; you kicking me out was doing me the biggest favor, and I am sober now”.” I know deep deep deep down in my heart that if I stayed in that relationship I would not be sober. My therapist asked me “What would happen if you stayed in that relationship?” I said, “I would be dead”. Now I am 2 years sober, and it is one of my greatest accomplishments that I have ever done for myself, by myself.
On June 6, 2022, I moved back in with my family; they opened their arms and welcomed me back home to heal, detox, and recover. Fortunately, this time back home, I informed my family members that I had boundaries; I was still in recovery and currently medicated. My mom spoke to my dad and told him that I needed my space and that any disagreements between them should be resolved on their own and not get me involved like a referee when I was just a child. What I did a lot as a child, though, turned me into a Voracious Reader as an Adult, and it was not until I found “QuitLit,” which is interpreted as (Literature of Quitting Drinking), that I began to dive into the readings, journaling, and self-reflections. I felt less alone and connected with other people online and on social media. Afterwards, I decided to seek out a therapist, and it has been vital to my growth and mental health. Reconnecting with my Family (Repairing the damages done to each other many years ago, through support and communication), reading, community, and therapy are the glorious components that have kept me sober. Taking it one day at a time, it is not easy, but I keep going.
About the author, Jorgie: I’m a kindergarten teacher who’s been an educator for 16 years. I am two years sober, and proud of it. I like to do writing on the side, and have two dogs and one cat.
Jorgie has recently created a Substack to continue to share his work, and you can follow him on Instagram here. His IG stories are so fun to follow!
A friend recently opened a discussion on the topic “courage over comfort” in a sobriety support meeting, and reflecting on that message was incredibly healing for me.
For me, choosing courage over comfort means being willing to try again, even when there’s a risk of heartache.
In January, I experienced a miscarriage in my first trimester. It was a devastating blow that left me in a very dark place for a while.
Someone asked me, “Why would you try again? Why risk exposing yourself to that pain if you might miscarry again?”
Sure, choosing not to try again would be the safer option. I wouldn’t have to worry about new, uncontrollable factors entering my life. There would be a sense of certainty. But being safe also keeps me limited to a small range of emotions, much like when I was drinking.
We deserve to feel the full range of human intensity. Cutting myself off from potential negative emotions out of fear also blocks me from experiencing the deepest joys. That kind of limiting safety is something I don’t want.
Here’s the thing: I’m not actively seeking heartache, but I’m not scared of it either. My recovery journey has equipped me with the tools to face anything and trust that I can get through it. My miscarriage in January taught me that recovery doesn’t exempt us from life’s tribulations but transforms our ability to navigate them. I understand that my sobriety owes me nothing—I trust it enough to know it has equipped me with the means to handle life’s challenges without needing to escape.
Not only that, but I am in a place where I trust my body fully. From the time I was a little girl, I was conditioned to put so much energy into trying to transform this body without realizing all it’s capable of and without recognizing its infinite wisdom. This body has gotten me through so many moments I didn’t think I would survive, so I have full faith that she will act accordingly in my journey moving forward. I just have to lean into her, listen to her, respect her, and treat her with care. If my body chooses to carry a pregnancy, I trust her, and if she doesn’t, I trust her, too. She’ll make the big decisions for me, not fear.
What about you? How do you approach choosing courage over comfort in your own life?
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I came across a quote by Dr. Brené Brown that really resonated with me, and I felt moved to share it here: “True belonging doesn’t require that we change who we are. It requires that we be who we are.”
You might already have a little voice in your head saying, “But Jessica, being myself led me to be outed from a space and actually made me feel isolated and not a sense of belonging!”
I believe that authenticity will not lead you to belong among people who are wrong for you. If people can’t tolerate the discomfort your true self brings or if their values are so misaligned with yours that you never agree on important matters (not like debating pizza toppings, though I might have to unfriend you if you’re anti-pineapple), it might be worth exploring if those people are right for you. Why force yourself to sit at a table that was never meant for you? Maybe your table is elsewhere, or you can create a new one for others to join.
Now, that little voice might come back and counter with, “But Jess, sometimes being authentic hurts others’ feelings, and they get upset with me. How can I be real without hurting others?”
I’m curious about what kind of “hurt” feelings you’re referring to because we can be true to ourselves without tearing others down. The only context where I can imagine authenticity hurting someone is when setting a boundary that someone doesn’t like, and they feel hurt because they’re being denied a certain type of access to you. Boundary setting can happen as a result of practicing authenticity, but let’s be clear: disappointing someone with a limit isn’t the same as tearing someone down. Being true to ourselves doesn’t require us to inflict pain on others. I’ve encountered people who claim to be “honest” or “real” when they’re actually just being hurtful. We can be honest without intentionally causing harm to others.
So, with that said, what if we adopted the perspective that belonging is about being authentic? How would our approach to others change if we fully embraced our true selves? Where might we find ourselves fitting in?
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I really wish I had a camera was a thought that lived in my mind the entire time I was at one of the treatment facilities I stayed at in 2020.
I spent five weeks in this facility, and though my memory of my arrival there is spotty, there are several snapshot moments of this experience I hope I never forget.
This is one of them.
“Karaoke? Here in a rehab? No way. You’ve gotta be kidding me.” I laughed while chatting with my friend Andy. Andy is this massive 6’5″ radiant personality I still get to text with to this day. We were in line for lunch at the cafeteria after finishing one of our group therapy sessions. There were eager murmurs among fellow residents that one of the staff members said she would bring in a mic and speaker set if we, the people who miraculously hadn’t killed themselves in recent weeks, were willing to do karaoke during her shift supervising us on Friday night.
It was early summer in 2020. After flipping my car upside down on Bardstown Road in Louisville, KY, I ended up in this treatment facility. The idea of going from barely wanting to be alive to singing into a mic in front of other people without a single drop of alcohol in my body was wild. I mean, I had to be locked away in a treatment facility because I couldn’t bring myself to stop drinking safely. Now, these people want to get me to sing along to a song on a microphone?
So many thoughts ran through my mind in response to this idea: What if I’m not fun to others and I just bore them? I’m not good enough to get up in front of others and just be. I like my singing voice, but I’m scared it’s not good enough to be a strong voice and that I can’t be silly enough to be comically bad for karaoke. Is there even such a thing as fun without alcohol? I’d like to watch others try. I love karaoke, but me? Sober? I’ll have to pass.
As we sat down to eat, Danielle, the staff member the buzz was about, approached our table. As usual, she was beaming, “Did y’all hear about karaoke on Friday? You ready, Jess?” She looked me in the eyes and smiled, which slowed the racing panic of my detoxing brain.
Danielle always put me at ease because her lived experience instilled hope that this repetitive cycle I found myself in would one day stop. In Drowning in Shallow Water: Chapter 1, I share how I learned that Danielle had also lost her partner to a drug overdose. Despite this loss, she was sober and working with others. Danielle gave me hope that I could find joy and love after losing my boyfriend, Ian. Her lived experience and confidence in how she conducted herself made me think, Maybe I can try this karaoke thing on Friday night.
I turned my face to Danielle, smiled while hesitantly shrugging my shoulders, and said, “I really don’t want to do it, but since you’re putting it together, Danielle, I’ll try it.”
“You won’t regret this, Jess!” Danielle declared.
And dammit, she was right.
On Friday night, Danielle came in for her shift. She decorated the residential lounge area, turned the overhead lights off, and connected her karaoke machine to her phone. As the music started playing and I felt the bass of the music vibrate a little bit, the sensory experiences began to take me back. The thumping with the darkness and the flashing lights from the machine took me back to being at a bar or club.
But I wasn’t at the club. I was in treatment.
One of the younger residents, Elly, got up to do a song. In our therapy groups, she was often disengaged and rarely used her voice. I assumed she did not want to take up space, so I remember my curiosity when I saw her awkwardly standing before us, her hand on the mic and the other on her hip. We waited for what felt like ages, and then the words came. Elly took a deep breath, closed her eyes, gripped the microphone with both hands and came to life.
I wish I could remember the song, but I don’t. Honestly, it doesn’t matter. What mattered was that Elly was freed beyond the walls of the treatment facility in those few moments. As she danced and performed as if she was on stage somewhere else, I elbowed Andy next to me, and I held up my hands as though I was holding up a real camera and took a snapshot of Elly.
So, what happened afterward?
After letting herself be seen, Elly started to speak up more in groups. And me? I did eventually sing, too, just not on that day. 🙂
On the left, me doing karaoke in my active addiction. On the right, karaoke sober.
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“The goal is not to stop feeling guilty, but instead, to turn down the volume and not let guilt control your decisions. It means seeing the guilt not as a giant red flag but as a faulty “check engine” light–something that’s always there but operates primarily in the background. You don’t want to let it take up extra energy or have you running to the mechanic in a panic. Sure, it means something–but it doesn’t mean everything.
In other words, guilt does not need to be our compass. It can just be a feeling in the background while we learn to reframe the discomfort as a signal that we’re taking responsibility for our own emotions.”
Dr. Pooja Lakshmin, discussing the discomfort of setting boundaries in Real Self-Care, page 101
I’m currently facilitating conversations around The Book of Boundaries by Melissa Urban to the Reframe App’s Book Club. Though we’re primarily focusing on Melissa’s writing, I had to bring this excerpt into our conversation from a different author, Dr. Pooja Lakshmin, because I LOVE how she frames dealing with guilt.
It’s just a faulty check engine light that is always there.
I wanted to add to this idea and connect this “guilt as a faulty check engine light” concept back to drinking and alcohol recovery. For years, as active problem drinkers, when we felt guilt, it often made sense. The Oxford Dictionary defines guilt as “a feeling of having done wrong or failed in an obligation.” So when we drank and felt guilt due to our alcohol-fueled decision-making, like when we promised our loved ones we wouldn’t imbibe only to embarrass ourselves hours later, or when we said we wouldn’t drink only to drink ourselves sick and have to spend a whole Sunday recovering instead of enjoying our weekend, the guilt we felt made sense, and it was such a terrible feeling that we often were triggered to drink more to numb it.
We feel emotions in our bodies, too, so when you felt guilty all those times, where did you feel it in your body? How did it feel?
For me, it was a rapidly sinking feeling in my stomach, similar to how you feel going down on a roller coaster. That’s how I felt guilt. It is still how I feel it today. It’s a graspy type of feeling where my arms want to reach out and hold onto something to ease that internal feeling of falling.
Here’s the thing, now that you’re sober, when you practice setting boundaries, as Melissa Urban and Dr. Pooja Lakshmin state, you’re going to feel guilt, 100%. So for me, when I set a boundary, I already know I am guaranteed to feel that sensation of going down a roller coaster I just described. However it is that you feel guilt, it will come up for you too. Be prepared.
In recovery, we must understand that guilt for doing the RIGHT thing will feel the same in our bodies as when we drank. We have to pay attention to the fact that now the shift is that the guilt is not a signal that we’re doing something wrong. It’s a sign that we’re doing something right.
In The Body Keeps The Score, Bessel van der Kolk states, “In order to change, people need to become aware of their sensations and the way that their bodies interact with the world around them. Physical self-awareness is the first step in releasing the tyranny of the past.” So with that being stated, when you start to feel the guilt manifest in your tightening chest when you tell your friends you’re not drinking this weekend and that if they try to push it on you that you will leave, your tight chest is letting you know that you’re doing something right. You just have to remind yourself of that as soon as that sensation comes up.
Your brain will interpret your chest tightening and start to scream, “Something is terribly wrong here! You need to drink to avoid feeling this uncomfortable sensation!” That’s how we get triggered. You can stop and tell your brain, “I’m safe. I’m not making any bad choices. I’m setting a boundary. I hear your panic, but we’re good. I’m taking care of us. You can relax. We’re safe.”
Doing the right thing takes work. Growth is uncomfortable, but as the authors mentioned in this piece state, it’s also difficult to remain where you have been and be unhappy.
“El objetivo no es dejar de sentirse culpable, sino bajar el volumen y no dejar que la culpa controle sus decisiones. Significa ver la culpa no como una bandera roja gigante sino como una luz defectuosa de “revisar el motor”, algo que siempre está está ahí, pero funciona principalmente en segundo plano. No querrás dejar que consuma energía extra o que corras al mecánico presa del pánico. Claro, significa algo, pero no significa todo.
En otras palabras, la culpa no necesita ser nuestra brújula. Puede ser simplemente un sentimiento de fondo mientras aprendemos a reformular la incomodidad como una señal de que estamos asumiendo la responsabilidad de nuestras propias emociones”.
Dr. Pooja Lakshmin, discutiendo la incomodidad de establecer límites en Real Self-Care, página 101
Actualmente estoy facilitando conversaciones sobre El libro de los límites de Melissa Urban para el club de lectura de la aplicación Reframe. Aunque nos estamos enfocando principalmente en la escritura de Melissa, tuve que traer este extracto a nuestra conversación de una autora diferente, la Dra. Pooja Lakshmin, porque ME ENCANTA cómo enmarca lidiar con la culpa.
Es solo una luz defectuosa del motor que siempre está ahí.
Quería agregar a esta idea y conectar este concepto de “culpa como una luz de control del motor defectuosa” con la bebida y la recuperación del alcohol. Durante años, como bebedores activos con problemas, cuando nos sentíamos culpables, a menudo tenía sentido. El Diccionario de Oxford define la culpa como “un sentimiento de haber hecho algo malo o haber fallado en una obligación”. Entonces, cuando bebimos y nos sentimos culpables debido a nuestra toma de decisiones impulsada por el alcohol, como cuando prometimos a nuestros seres queridos que no beberíamos solo para avergonzarnos horas después, o cuando dijimos que no beberíamos solo para enfermarnos. y tener que pasar un domingo entero recuperándonos en lugar de disfrutar nuestro fin de semana, la culpa que sentíamos tenía sentido, y era un sentimiento tan terrible que a menudo nos incitaba a beber más para adormecerlo.
También sentimos emociones en nuestros cuerpos, así que cuando te sentiste culpable todas esas veces, ¿dónde lo sentiste en tu cuerpo? ¿Como se sintió?
Para mí, fue una sensación de hundimiento rápido en mi estómago, similar a cómo te sientes al bajar en una montaña rusa. Así fue como me sentí culpable. Todavía es como lo siento hoy. Es un tipo de sensación de agarre en la que mis brazos quieren estirarse y agarrarse a algo para aliviar esa sensación interna de caída.
Esta es la cuestión, ahora que está sobrio, cuando practique el establecimiento de límites, como afirman Melissa Urban y la Dra. Pooja Lakshmin, se sentirá culpable al 100%. Entonces, para mí, cuando establezco un límite, ya sé que tengo garantizado sentir esa sensación de bajar en una montaña rusa que acabo de describir. Sea como sea que te sientas culpable, también te surgirá a ti. Estar preparado.
En recuperación, debemos entender que la culpa por hacer lo CORRECTO se sentirá en nuestro cuerpo igual que cuando bebíamos. Tenemos que prestar atención al hecho de que ahora el cambio es que la culpa no es una señal de que estamos haciendo algo mal. Es una señal de que estamos haciendo algo bien.
En The Body Keeps The Score, Bessel van der Kolk afirma: “Para cambiar, las personas deben ser conscientes de sus sensaciones y de la forma en que sus cuerpos interactúan con el mundo que les rodea. La autoconciencia física es el primer paso para liberar la tiranía del pasado”. Entonces, dicho esto, cuando comience a sentir que la culpa se manifiesta en su pecho apretado cuando les dice a sus amigos que no beberá este fin de semana y que si intentan forzarlo, se irá, su pecho apretado está dejando sabes que algo estás haciendo bien. Solo tienes que recordártelo a ti mismo tan pronto como surja esa sensación.
Tu cerebro interpretará que tu pecho se contrae y comenzará a gritar: “¡Algo anda terriblemente mal aquí! ¡Necesitas beber para evitar sentir esta sensación incómoda!” Así es como nos disparamos. Puedes detenerte y decirle a tu cerebro: “Estoy a salvo. No estoy tomando malas decisiones. Estoy estableciendo un límite. Escucho tu pánico, pero estamos bien. Me estoy ocupando de nosotros. Tú Puedes relajarte. Estamos a salvo.
Hacer lo correcto requiere trabajo. El crecimiento es incómodo, pero como los autores mencionan en este artículo, también es difícil permanecer donde has estado y ser infeliz.
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I am at a conference in New Orleans, and one of the questions for discussion at a session I attended was, what cultural or family norm(s) do you need to release to survive?
My grandmother, Sofía, was a child bride who was taken from her family in Nicaragua at 14 and brought to Costa Rica. Her abuser claimed she was his daughter at the border in order to traffic her into Costa Rica, then married her there against her will. For years, he beat her as she had child after child of his. Abuela Sofía couldn’t speak up because for her to speak up was to risk her safety and that of her children. She was in a foreign country with no rights and no resources. Recognizing and advocating for her mental health needs was not an option, and the day she finally summoned the courage to take that risk, her abuser threw her and their children into the street, leaving them to survive without his support.
My mother, raised in the aftermath of my grandmother’s choice to speak up, migrated to the United States from Costa Rica years later. From my grandmother, my mother learned that speaking up for herself could lead to grave consequences, and being an undocumented and unwelcome immigrant in a foreign country where she did not speak English, she too avoided making many waves.
Most of my family who migrated to the United States followed suit. As they arrived, they carried silence with them into this country.
We did not discuss many things, mental health being a topic not up for discussion. Sure, if someone drank too much, they were labeled a “borracho” (drunk) or a “vago” (lazy person), but that was where the conversation ended, at a label: no discussion, no digging, no examination, no reflection.
So when I found myself in the throws of addiction, I continued the family tradition of silence. However, the silence was stifling, and I slowly lost my breath. I was suffocating. Silence may have worked as a tool for survival for my mother, grandmother, and the women before them, but it was killing me.
For years, I didn’t step outside of myself to examine my situation and realize that I was not in my mother’s shoes or my grandmother’s. I was born here in the United States. At the peak of my addiction, I had a job with access to medical benefits that I could use to help me treat my yearning for alcohol. No one was putting me in danger but me.
The longer I carried the weight of the cultural tradition of silence, the farther I distanced myself from help. Rapidly, I was starting to drown in the midst of my alcohol use until suddenly, in November 2020, I opened my mouth. I used my voice and stopped comparing what I needed to do to live to those before me.
I tapped into the power that my family’s silence had stifled for generations and asked for help.
I had to release the norm of silence to save my own life, and now, I’ll make it my mission to always speak openly about this journey because I know that silence can be deadly.
